


Impersonal

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Blindfolds, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Forced Orgasm, Gags, Hand Jobs, M/M, Objectification, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Restraints, Sub Dean Winchester, Tied-Up Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dean can’t explain what this does for him, or why, but he knows what he wants, and Cas puts every potential safeguard in place to ensure he can have it and be secure and protected at the same time.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57
Collections: Supernatural Anon Kink Meme





	Impersonal

**Author's Note:**

> A/note: to fill a prompt at the kink meme that asked for Dean to be spending an evening as human furniture and then to be taken care of by Cas afterwards.
> 
> Feelings got involved.

It’s just after six pm. The first of their guests will be there soon, and Dean can’t quite handle the anticipation, the tingle of need running under his skin like a low level electric current.

Cas is studying him, gentle, protective, and then he reaches up to stroke his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“You remember the rules.”

Dean nods. He can stop things at any time. He can pause things at any time. He doesn’t have to let anybody do or say anything to him that makes him feel uncomfortable or unsafe.

But Cas will be right there; it isn’t the first time they’ve played like this, and Dean knows that, even when his lover isn’t in his immediate line of sight, or if he can’t hear his voice, Cas is never far and always close enough to look and listen for signs of Dean being in distress.

Sometimes he’s called a halt before Dean has even realised his situation was heading in that direction, but that just happened once, and the person responsible (and the people who brought her) have never been invited again.

“I need to hear you tell me,” Cas insists, and Dean would roll his eyes except he knows Cas is only looking out for him, taking all and every precaution to ensure that while Dean gets what he’s looking for tonight, he is never at risk either physically, mentally or emotionally.

“Yes, Cas,” he says. “I remember the rules.”

He shivers in want as Cas kisses him, and slides his hand down over Dean’s naked skin, cupping his ass, pulling him in closer.

Dean can’t resist (not that he would; Cas’s kisses make him feel like he’s the most wanted thing in existence, a gift to be cherished - they could set him on fire); his hands are locked behind him in leather cuffs that are secure but not so tight as to put his circulation in jeopardy.

Similar cuffs, but with six inches of chain running between them so he has some mobility, are fastened around his ankles, and that just leaves three more things.

Cas holds up the red plastic ball. It’s a cat’s toy, the kind that has bells inside, so it jingles. It’s Dean’s safeword. If he needs things to slow down or stop, if anything’s wrong, he just has to let it fall from his hand; even in the hubbub of conversation, with some light music or the TV in the background, it’s a non verbal signal that no one will be able to miss (and each of their guests has already been warned what it means).

Especially Cas, who Dean knows will be on edge all evening, watching him intently, ears pricked listening for the jangle of bells beyond what’s to be expected as Dean moves.

Or, more likely, is moved.

The blindfold comes next, a black satin sleep mask that fits snugly, but not overly so, across Dean’s eyes. Once it’s on, there’s no light, no nothing, and he feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, his balance suddenly iffy at best.

Cas grips his shoulders, firm but not hard, a reassurance that he’s there. That he will be there, this whole night, and he will keep Dean safe.

He’ll be Dean’s balance, his safety rail, and he claims one further kiss before he asks Dean to open his mouth.

Dean does, and feels the ridged ball of the gag press between his lips. It’s the perforated one, a lot easier to breathe through and around, the only kind suitable for wearing over an extended period, and Dean knows that (barring him calling a halt for any reason) he’ll be sporting it for most of the night.

Cas returns his hands to Dean’s shoulders, and guides him down. Dean goes, directed, secure, and finds a plump softness beneath his knees, and sinks into position.

There’s a tiny carabiner clip hanging from the chain between Dean’s ankle cuffs. Cas reaches down and fastens it around a D link between the wrist cuffs, and that’s it.

Dean’s there.

All he can do is listen as Cas makes the final preparations, moves around, occasionally strokes Dean’s cheek or rests a hand on his head.

He has no idea how much time passes, a minute, an hour, but probably nowhere near that much, and then the doorbell goes, and he hears Cas welcoming someone into the room.

++

Sometimes, Dean thinks he couldn’t, even under pain of torture, explain why he craves this. Why he needs it. 

Cas, other than going as far as needed to be sure this isn’t a sign of something unhealthy in Dean’s psyche, some mistaken attempt at self harm, has never pressed Dean to justify it or put it into words.

It’s enough for him that it makes Dean happy, it turns him on; there’s something very submissive in Dean, which he’s always known, but never had the right situation, a safe place and relationship, to admit and explore.

Cas does that for him, is that for him, and Dean knows he’ll never love anybody as much as he does his dark haired, blue eyed angel.

But for now, his mind is elsewhere; his senses are being pulled in all directions, by what he can hear, by what he can feel.

Sometime after the ice had cracked (there’s always that fifteen minutes or so, even if there’s nobody new in attendance, where everybody just needs to slip into the right headspace and remind themselves that absolutely nobody is judging anybody tonight), somebody touched him and it wasn’t Cas.

He knows Cas’s touch, intimately, and the hand that stroked down the back of his neck was a little too tentative, and the palm was sweaty.

Nervous.

Dean makes a sound, a kind of pleading whine, because since Cas opened the door for the first guest, nobody’s really paid him any mind, other than a passing compliement here or there.

He needs, and so he pushes back into the touch, even though he knows he shouldn’t do either.

The hand withdraws, and Dean could moan at the frustration but he’s not a person tonight; he’s an object: a chair, or a footrest, or a table.

Hell, once he’s even been a serving platter, and that was one of the best nights Cas has ever given him, taking Dean’s fantasy and making it even an even better reality.

But that frustration is not unwelcome; he’s already hard, just from wandering who will do what to him, with him, first, and from the knowledge that unless he or Cas call a stop, he’s powerless to prevent it.

“Can we move it?”

The voice comes from above him, to his right; he strains to match it, then realises it’s from Balthazar, some cousin ten times removed of Cas’s.

“Well, it’s no good to anybody out in the middle of the floor.”

They lift him, carefully, easily, despite his size and build, and all he can do is try not to tense up, but it’s only seconds before he’s gently set down again, back on his knees.

The floor is harder this time, without the cushion, but then those hands are turning him ninety degrees, and someone is undoing the carabiner clip, and Dean feels the brush of leather to his right as he overbalances a little before he’s caught and set back in place.

The settee. He’s next to the settee.

That’s gives him some idea of what’s expected of him, so he finds it easier to cooperate as his wrist cuffs are delinked, his hands guided in front of him so he can rest his forearms on the floor, before he’s restrained again.

Someone moves around him, and then two legs come to rest on his back.

They’re solid, some weight to them (a guy’s, he’s sure) and it takes him a moment to adjust.

Before too long, he knows his muscles will still to feel it, and his knees are already pressed hard against the floor.

He almost can’t wait for the trembling to set in, the burn as he tries to hold position and not ask for a reprieve.

Dean starts to count in his head. Slowly up to fifty. Starts over.

In increments, like that, he reaches three hundred before it feels like acid attacking his muscles. He wonders if the person using him as a footrest can tell.

Do they enjoy that more, knowing he’s fighting to keep still?

Will they make him hold this position for longer? Will they take their weight off him, but leave him as he is on the floor?

He gets his answer when he hears Cas’s voice.

“I think that’s enough time on the floor,” he says, and Dean can hear a little disapproval in his voice, but maybe it’s for him (Cas knows, always knows, when he’s pushing his own limits) or maybe it’s for whoever was making themselves comfortable.

He isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed when he’s guided to his feet.

The hands holding him are Cas’s, he knows that, and he relishes the feel of Cas’s breath on his skin as Cas leans in and whispers to him.

“Do you want to stop?” Because Cas knows him, that’s why Dean knows he’s been watched like a hawk so far, and he will be until the night is over.

Cas always keeps watch over him.

He shakes his head, and then Cas rearranges the cuffs so that Dean’s hands are once more locked up behind him.

Cas steps away then; Dean can feel it, and he knows it’s not Cas who touches him next.

Probably the same guys as before, and they turn him around, lift him bodily, and then he’s lying on his back across three laps, stretched out like some kind of throw rug, and just like that he’s not in the room, anymore, to them.

++

This position is a lot easier; Dean can almost relax, could almost say he’s even comfortable.

He lies there, listening to small talk; somebody’s been screwed over for promotion. The guy with his lap under Dean’s head has his own worries, because he’s pretty sure his neighbour suspects he’s maybe been a little, uh, creative, with his tax returns.

One of them tells a joke that has the weakest punch line ever, but the three of them laugh anyway, and then a finger gently strokes the line of Dean’s throat, dips into the hollow at the bottom before tracing its way lazily down, following the rise of his clavicle before circling one of his nipples.

It’s as if the other two are boldened by this, and then all their hands are on him, touching where they will. They play, stroking up the insides of his thighs, coming close but then stalling, and somebody dips their finger into his belly button, then delves a little deeper.

The guy beneath his head leans down to kiss him around the gag, his tongue darting out to skirt the circumference, and that muffles Dean’s yelp as somebody, maybe the same guy, pinches a nipple sharply.

The pain is a sudden, delicious counterpoint to the pleasureable edge he’s riding, and yes, thank you, whoever’s hands are on his legs decides to stop tormenting him and they get down to business, stroking his balls, rolling and squeezing, and either he’s grown a third hand or the middle guy is helping out, because his dick is getting worked over, not that it would take much.

It doesn’t, and head guy puts an arm across his upper body to hold him down as he comes, hard enough to leave him panting and moaning through the gag.

He lies there, letting his breathing and heart rate settle, his own spunk starting to dry on his skin, as one of them asks for another whiskey, this time, no ice.

They don’t touch him for the rest of the night.

++

When it’s done, and all their guests are gone, Cas crouches down beside Dean.

He undoes the gag first, strokes lightly at Dean’s jaw, and then removes the blindfold.

He has the lights turned down low, but he still holds his hand over Dean’s eyes, fingers spread just a crack, until he’s accustomed to being able to see again.

Cas is staring down at him, looking as worried as always when a night like this is over, and he’s not sure if things went too far, not far enough, or once again falling victim to his fears that this is all Dean’s way of hurting himself for x, y and z, for his perceived failings or just because he needs a way to push everything back or down.

Before, yes, Dean has been guilty of that, but Cas came into his life and it hasn’t been how he is for a long time now.

That’s not to say the temptation isn’t there, but Cas is stronger, and he’s helped Dean accept that sometimes, his head lies to him.

He rolls towards Cas so the wrist cuffs can be undone, and Cas frees his ankles as well, and then picks up a warm cloth to clean him up again.

Dean lies here, still and easy, not yet fully present, and lets Cas take care of him. Cas is gentle and thorough; he dabs at Dean’s skin until he’s clean, and then carefully towels him dry.

Only then does he encourage Dean to sit up so he can get beneath him, and he guides Dean onto his lap, and into his arms.

Dean rests his head on Cas’s shoulder, now starting to come back, and his body is reminding him of the consequences of being virtually imobile, in some uncomfortable positions, for a few hours.

As if Cas knows, he rubs gently at Dean’s shoulders, and back, and thighs, and Dean knows that there’s a warm bath and a deep muscle massage in his immediate future, and possibly after that Cas will spend some time making love to him, but for now he’s happy where he is, and he snuggles as deep into Cas’s hold as he can.


End file.
